


How do you stop being scared?

by sellertape



Category: The Avengers (2012), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellertape/pseuds/sellertape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A sudden shove to the shoulder made Daryl stumble forwards, kicks to his ankles and shins directing him on a path into the middle of the clamouring chaos of sound. Two, was all he thought now, they got two. Glenn hadn’t been fast enough, Rick had been stupid, that creepy, walks-with-walkers girl... </i> </p><p>An AU of an AU; there is a fight to the death on the Governor's watch, but it's not between the Dixons. Rewarding the captain of this ship with (I hope) lashings of pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How do you stop being scared?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnalyseThisInkBlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalyseThisInkBlot/gifts).



> Not a requirement, but Olivia's original fic that I based this 'verse on can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/581737/chapters/1044535), and you should all read it like yesterday.
> 
> Only half-beta'd because I wanted her to be surprised, so if you spot something I didn't, be a doll and holler on me.  
> As ever, cookies for reference spotting, including in that thing I just said.

“I’m afraid of terrorists who want what we have. Who want to destroy us.” The voice carried across the still night air, though Daryl had near stopped breathing to keep account of the situation. What he was compared to what these people thought he was were two very different things, but Daryl Dixon hadn’t gotten this far by ignoring what the mean kids said about him. In fact in some cases –

“But this fear is a fickle foe,” the Governor had started again. _This jackass does longer speeches than Rick,_ he thought dully. It’d be nice to have the chance to hear one of those again. Unfortunately the apocalypse’s answer to Stepford seemed to like the Governor’s voice just as much as the man himself.

“It can hinder, and harm. But it can do the same to all. To them. So what do you say we give them something to be afraid about?” The question has swollen into a battle cry, and was met with a roar. Daryl couldn’t tell how many voices joined the Governor’s then; his sense were dulled, confused by the thick sack over his head. What he did sense, though, what he had no problem discerning with almost painful clarity, was that this showcase was going to involve him.

 _Let ‘em try_ , a part of him, the part that had spoken with Merle’s voice for as long as he could remember, hissed. The words seemed to reverberate around the inside of the bag. Another part, one Daryl had refused to even give a voice, sent a wordless prayer upwards.

“We have joining us tonight,” the Governor’s slightly hoarse bellow continued, “two of these said terrorists, who have obligingly allowed themselves to be captured so that they may assist us.”

A sudden shove to the shoulder made Daryl stumble forwards, kicks to his ankles and shins directing him on a path into the middle of the clamouring chaos of sound. _Two_ , was all he thought now, _they got two. Glenn hadn’t been fast enough, Rick had been stupid, that creepy, walks-with-walkers girl had..._

The sack was yanked away and he momentarily reeled. As luck would have it, he had been directly facing one of the spotlights focused on the arena and had to blink several times before anything came into focus. When the dark shapes had realigned themselves into a recognisable manner he saw tiered seats, full to the brim with score upon score of leering, howling, raging... humans. If they could have seen themselves. Daryl had never really grasped what irony meant, but the sight of these living acting so dead was as close as he figured he’d get. He almost laughed.

That feeling was snuffed out like a candle as soon as he saw the face of terrorist number two.

_“Jesus, what happened to you?”_

_Clint had propped himself up against the door jam, his usually dominating focus on half-power as he vaguely waved Daryl’s hand away. Both of his eyes were hooded and he looked drained, of energy and blood, if the pale face was anything to go by. Pale except for the shining black bruise blossoming around his left eye. He made to push past but Daryl’s hand hit the wall and Clint almost crashed into the arm now blocking the tiny hallway._

_Usually, Clint could have easily forced Daryl to back down, and they both knew it, but today he didn’t seem to have the will. Nor could he meet his friend’s eye._

_“I flunked training today.”_

_“So they beat you?” Since when had the world of employment been taken on by their fathers? None-too-gently, Daryl pulled Clint by the jacket so they ended up three feet to the left, in the miniscule kitchenette Daryl had totally been meaning to tidy this week, honest. It was another mark of how out of it Clint was when he didn’t make a face at being dropped onto a stool in front of last night’s cans while Daryl kicked another away so the freezer could open._

_“It was an important lesson.” Daryl slid an ice pack along a clear route across the counter and leant against the sink, arms folded until Clint grudgingly pressed it to his eye._

_“What was the lesson?” There was a crunch as Clint’s fist tightened on the bag._

_“Sometimes you gotta leave a man behind.”_

It had been an important lesson, Daryl had agreed. He still did. But one that Clint, in all his shining honour, had never learnt.

His complexion now was much the same as it had been then, a storm of purple and black clouding his cheekbone. Daryl knew he himself couldn’t look much better, and he imagined the expression he saw on Clint’s bruised face was almost a mirror of his own.

_Not you. Anyone but you._

One thing about that scene hadn’t translated to the present, though. Clint focused, with that terrifying intensity, on Daryl’s face. He stared back, even as the Governor slung an arm over his bare shoulders. If this was to be his last, he wanted the view to be of his own choosing.

“I assume we’re all acquainted,” the man said in a cheerful voice that made Daryl want to feed him his fist, if they hadn’t been tied behind him.

Neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither broke eye contact. Until another voice carried over the heads of the closest spectators, one that, outside his own mind, Daryl Dixon hadn’t expected to hear again.

“Daryl?” Merle hollered, pushing through onlookers. “Gov’ner, what you doing, that’s my brother!”

“Right on cue, Mr Dixon,” the Governor spun to face the furious soldier, bringing Daryl with him to leave Clint behind them, alone, with every gun trained on him.

Merle hadn’t changed much either, save the obvious. Growing up feeding themselves, both brothers had always been on the skinny side. His face was a little haggard, like it always had been the first few days he was a free man again.

“You wanted your brother, now you got him,” his leader was telling him now. He raised his voice again so the whole arena could hear. “Yes, it seems to have been a family affair tonight, with Merle’s own brother leading the charge on I can only guess what orders he received from his inside man here.”

“Wh- _me_?” Merle had to shout over the new upsurge of noise. “ _You_ said-”

“Now,” the Governor clearly had no interest in what he had said, swinging a glowering Daryl back around as he addressed his citizens. Behind him, Daryl could hear his brother’s angry protests as he was disarmed and cuffed. “What should we do with them, huh?”

For the first time, Clint seemed to acknowledge there was an audience. He turned slowly, eyeing every face as screams of ‘kill ‘em!’ washed over them all. But when the Governor pushed and Daryl lurched forwards again, Clint was there. He couldn’t grab him, with his own wrists bound in cable, but caught him with one shoulder and heaved. As soon as Daryl was upright, Clint ducked, and his neck grazed Daryl’s cheek as he breathed into his ear.

“You alright, kiddo?”

It was all Daryl could do not to bury his face in the crook of that neck, just to block out the background of people baying for his death. But Merle was still shouting and Daryl couldn’t help it. He turned to see his brother receive a punch to the gut.

“Make them fight,” one voice rang out. It was impossible to know where it came from, but as soon as was said a hush spread over everyone. Then it was repeated, everywhere, all around them, echoing through the shadows, all they could hear. “Fight! Make them fight!”

When Clint slipped past his shoulder to stand facing the north crowd, Daryl figured it had been in that damn training of his. Back to back, don’t let anyone surprise you. Hadn’t he and Merle done it enough times in bars?

Then he felt calloused fingers brush his wrist, bumping the metal cuffs until they found his own and grasped tight.

“You take the forty on the left?” Clint murmured. Daryl squeezed.

“What an excellent notion,” the Governor was smiling, a gleeful smile that coupled with his bloody eye patch to make him look more than a little unhinged. “They will not only fear us, but one another!” This was greeted with laughs and whoops, but Daryl felt Clint freeze.

_One... another..._

They only just had time to let go before they were torn apart, wrenched around and their wrists liberated. Clint’s eyes were darting warily around now, his mouth a thin line of well-composed panic. There was a snarl from behind and Daryl twisted around. Walkers. Five, no, six. No –

He scrambled backwards, almost knocking Clint to the ground as they collided, turning to see he, too, was avoiding the swipes of the nearest dead. It wasn’t a rouse now; back to back they circled slowly, trying and failing to keep every threat in view at once.

“Man against man,” the Governor announced to accompanying jeers. Walkers everywhere. One great ring of death. “Winner goes free.”

 _Liar_. But Daryl was waiting for the words, the words he could taste on the hot air, the ones he knew were coming next.

“Fight. To the death.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spat, pulling in his stomach and shrinking away from the claws of a particularly lanky corpse. He heard the Governor laugh.

“I thought you might need some persuasion.” There was a strangled cry and Daryl took his eyes from the nearest Walker, almost feeling the whiplash of Clint’s neck twisting too. Merle’s own blade was caressing his jaw, the man himself held down by two soldiers on each arm. He was straining away from the point, but it was doing him no good. Clint inhaled sharply, and if Daryl had been thinking straight he might have found that odd. But his brother was now bleeding from a prick to the throat, the red stain spreading on his filthy undershirt.

_“Who’s that?” They had been almost the same height when they were seven; Daryl had spurted upwards, resulting in pants being several inches too short and becoming so annoying he had hacked them all up to shorts. Shorts were now all he owned, and he was beginning to feel the bite of the September wind. He held back a shiver as he turned to Clint._

_His friend was hanging upside down from the thick tree branch, so he didn’t even have to raise his eyes to meet his. The boy was pointing back towards Daryl’s house, to where Merle had kicked open the screen door and was tossing bags into the yard._

_“‘S m’brother,” he mumbled, watching the older boy load a rifle and snap it shut._

_“Whass he doing?”_

_“Huntin’.”_

_“Out there?” Daryl took his eyes from Merle’s retreating back and turned back to the tree. Clint had gone. Looking up, he saw the boy hunched on the branch, gazing out after the elder Dixon, awe stuck. “Isn’t he afraid of the Chupacabra?”_

_“No!” Daryl’s high voice raised higher. “Merle’s not afraid of nothin’. Merle could hunt the Chupacabra and bring it here to me. He would if I asked.” Clint jumped to sit next to him in the overgrown grass, eyes wide._

_“I wish I had a brother.”_

_“We could share, but I don’t think Merle would like it.” Daryl watched Clint nod sadly, before getting an idea. “But I could be your brother?”_

_“Yeah?” Clint’s face split. Daryl wasn’t used to getting people to smile like that, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it, but it was a nice feeling and he liked Clint’s smile, so he nodded earnestly and watched it grow bigger. Then the smile faded and for a moment Daryl panicked; he’d done something wrong. Clint was frowning at an ant climbing a grass stalk, chewing the edge of his bottom lip._

_“I’m not sure I know how to be a brother,” his friend admitted at length._

_“Oh, it’s easy,” Daryl laughed, “just watch Merle, you’ll see. You have to be ready to help a brother whenever you can, and you can’t be scared,” he raised his voice in the warning tone he’d heard his mother use._

_“How do you stop being scared?” Now it was Daryl’s time to frown thoughtfully._

_“Well...” he said eventually. “Whenever I’m scared, I just pretend I’m my brother.”_

Merle was sweating, but there was something else scoring tracks in the grime on his cheeks, Daryl saw. The tears of a man scared for his life. Daryl watched them fall for a moment, the impossibility of his situation suddenly crashing down onto him.

Guns on him, knives to Merle, Clint in the middle of it all for no damn reason other than Daryl himself had been taken by surprise by an extra surge of armed civilians. They weren’t getting out. Fight to the death, winner goes free. Bullshit. They were all dead.

It didn’t seem to be his choice to make, though.

“Well.” Clint sounded almost amused. “I’m sorry, Daryl. But I like my life a whole lot more than either of you two scumbags.”

But that wasn’t what he’d said. Daryl had misheard. The crowd was still baying; the appearance of the blade had excited them even more, and Clint’s words had got lost on their way to him. He turned to check Clint’s expression, to see if he could work out what he’d really meant... and his face was met with a closed fist.

He went sprawling, white spots bursting into his vision and pain lashing through his senses. His head swam, though he wasn’t sure if that was entirely to do with the punch as much as who had thrown it. Merle was shouting. Everyone was shouting, but Merle was closest.

“You son of a bitch!”

Then he heard a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh he recognised, and it couldn’t possibly belong to the voice that followed, and yet, when Daryl rocked his head across the dusty ground, there he was.

“Son of a bitch, huh?” Clint asked Merle, an unfamiliar grin on his face. “I’ll have you know my mother was an upstanding pillar of the community.” He dipped, but Daryl wasn’t quick enough and the kick caught him in the chest, knocking the breath from him. “Nothing, I may add, like yours.” He curled up around the impact, fighting to drag in lungfuls of the sticky night air.

“But why not?” He saw boots come back into focus. “Come on, you redneck son of a bitch,” their owner spat, dancing out of the way of Daryl’s sluggish swipes and hopping over his legs to kick at the back of his knees. “Get up. Come on. Or are you just gonna lie there and take it like your Mom did when she saw the flames rise up?”

All pain forgotten, Daryl’s head shot up, his face contorting into his own snarl as he met Clint’s glare. The crowd had become, if possible, even wilder. There was no way they could have known the history in Clint’s taunts, or even the extent of the betrayal Daryl was facing down, but it had caused a reaction and they loved it. And Clint was playing their bloodlust like a fiddle. _If he kills me, they might even adopt him_. Was that what was going on here? Cashing in one family in the hopes of another?

“She knew what a worthless piece of crap that family of yours was, she couldn’t wait to get out.” Suddenly Daryl was on his feet, his fist smashing into the other man’s jaw. Clint flew backwards and rolled, almost into the reaching arms of a Walker.

“Back them up!” the Governor’s voice sounded. As one, the Walkers were yanked five feet out, leaving their ring wider. Clint flipped onto his back, sneering up at Daryl.

“‘S more like it, y’sack of shit, give me what I deserve. Give me what your daddy would’a given you if you spoke like this.” Daryl swung a kick at his ribs but Clint caught the boot, twisting and bringing Daryl back to the ground with him.

For a second, their eyes met, and Daryl imagined he looked almost –

_“I’m sorry!” Clint snapped. “But really, what do you want me to do, stay in this cage for the rest of my life?”_

_“If it was about the flat you wouldn’t have moved in in the first place,” Daryl sniped from the sofa, refusing to turn from the fuzzy football match they had managed to hack from the upstairs signal. A dull thump told him Clint had dropped his travel bag._

_“It isn’t the flat,” he heard him call from the kitchen. Like there was anything in there he needed to pack. He better not make off with the last of the beer. “It isn’t anything. Nothing is wrong.”_

_“Then why are you taking off all of a sudden?”_

_“Because we have no money, Daryl! These people are paying me!”_

_“To move to Budapest?!”_

_“Not ‘move’,” Clint came into view as he passed the couch to get to the extra drawers they had found for five dollars at a thrift store. They hadn’t given a shit when the owner vaguely apologised for there only being one bedroom instead of the two advertised, but they had underestimated just how much clothes space two dirt-poor twenty year olds used. Daryl didn’t move, even when Clint almost sent the crossbow leaning against the wall crashing. “I’m just being stationed there for the time being,” he said, as he carefully propped it back up._

_“Oh yeah, and how long is the average tour of duty in this government conspiracy?” Clint shot him a look._

_“It’s not a conspiracy.”_

_Daryl kissed the back of his teeth, grimacing at the pinprick that was the ball in play. “That wasn’t the question part of that question.”_

_“I don’t know, okay?” Clint slammed the drawer shut and continued his blitz around the apartment, stuffing things at random into the bag. “It’ll take how long it takes.”_

_There was silence as he carried on; Daryl watched, emotionless, as first one side scored, then the other. Then everything was still. He twisted to see Clint, bag slung across his chest, hovering by the door._

_“I’m not walking out on you Daryl. I wouldn’t do that.” Daryl turned back to the set, now advertising a car for more than two year’s rent on this place._

_He heard Clint open the door, and something made him blurt out - “have fun with your Russian bird.”_

_He didn’t look back again, even as he sensed Clint freeze, though the urge to do just that, to say something else, anything, but mostly..._

_“Sorry.” It was drowned by the slamming of the front door._

Sorry wasn’t going to do it this time though. Clint had made his choice, and Daryl would be damned if he was going down without giving the jackass the best fight on any continent the government had flown him to.

They were up again, and this time it was real. No surprises, no tactics, just fists and elbows and teeth. Not that they’d ever really put it to the test (except perhaps when roaring drunk and in need of a release), but Daryl had always thought Clint would be more of an endurance guy. Sure enough, he was mainly blocking any move of Daryl’s he could. _Waiting for me to get tired? Too bad I could do this all night._

Punch. Block. Step. Parry.

The crowd became a blur of noise and colour, voices fading into one big gale, spinning past his ears. Every now and then, they would stray too near a Walker, aching to join in the clash, but the holder of the chains would yank them back, too caught up in the sport to risk ending it quickly.

_I flunked training today._

Step. Punch. Parry. Jab.

 “We’re gonna be here all night,” Clint shot at the Governor who had come back into view. Daryl didn’t risk a look at Merle, didn’t want to be caught off guard the same way twice. It did no good. Clint had been holding back for the right onlooker, he saw that now. A well-placed kick brought Daryl to one knee, with Clint’s boot pressing down on his shin. “Give me something to finish him, you’ve had your show.”

_I wish I had a brother._

The Governor smiled wryly and jerked his chin at a kid who couldn’t have been more than thirteen. The boy swung a baseball bat from his shoulders and obediently passed it to his leader, who threw it into the circle of Walkers for Clint to snatch out of the air.

_You have to be ready to help a brother whenever you can._

“Thank you,” Clint bowed, then brought the bat up behind his shoulder.

_And you can’t be scared._

The screams and cheers of the crowd reached new heights when the swing began to fall. It seemed everyone was on their feet. Everyone except Daryl. He was close enough to hear the whistle of the wood through the warm air, even over a hundred people who wanted him dead.

_I wouldn’t do that._

The bat swung.

Daryl blinked.

The screams changed.

The weight on his leg was gone, which meant Clint was too, and Daryl raised his head to be greeted with utter pandemonium.

Clint had taken the head off the nearest Walker, which had flown into the face of a nearby soldier who had been holding three chains at once. In panic, he appeared to have let go. Daryl staggered to his feet, slightly heady, which, he guessed, was a better state than he had expected the last thirty seconds to leave him in.

People were all around him, fleeing, terrified, as Walker after liberated Walker tore though the numbers. There was a burst of gunfire – oh Jesus, they don’t care, they’re shooting into this mess – and Daryl dived for cover under one of the raised benches. Through the gaps between seats he made out a flash of white ash as Clint sent more dead skulls soaring. Daryl glanced around helplessly, looking for a weapon, anything to defend himself with, and caught the eye of a teenage girl huddled with what looked like her young brother in her arms. Her wide eyes grew wider when she realised he’d seen them, and she clung even tighter to the boy, but Daryl had no time for them. _Let_ ' _em see_ , he thought, _let 'em see what places like this do to people and let them fucking remember_.

The firing had stopped, the gunners either running or eaten, and he decided to split. Merle was out there somewhere, and whatever the fuck was going on with Clint, the Walkers couldn’t make it out of the arena, or they’d soon be overwhelmed. He swung himself up onto the benches and took the first Walker’s head off with a wrench of the neck, trying to see through the mass of running, dead and dying.

Merle had somehow been reunited with his blade, and was cutting down anything near him that moved, Governor’s men and Walkers alike. The Governor himself was nowhere to be seen, but Christ that was a big pile of bodies.

Sure enough, as he watched, he saw a dead hand twitch. Eighty-plus infected, living in close quarters, with God knows what that scientist was pumping into the water in hopes of a cure? It was happening too fast.

Someone had dropped a gun near one of the fires. No bullets, but heavy enough to batter some of the more rotted. There were too many though, he could see, even with the soldiers temporarily united with the terrorists, it was quickly becoming a case of six to one, with more on the way.

Then there was a renewed burst of fire, half a dozen rounds, all at once, and Daryl knocked a Walker out of the way to see the most welcome sight since that God damned hell hole of a prison.

“We were doing just fine,” he called to Rick, who actually managed what might have been a laugh, and tossed him a fully stocked rifle. Behind him, the not-a-little-bit-terrifying dark girl was swinging her sword like she’d been born with it. He doubted he’d ever admit it, but the usual rescue retinue cut a far more impressive figure with her addition. Glenn looked God-awful, but still managed to tear a Walker back long enough for Maggie to slit its throat.

The pile of dead dead grew, the last of the living residents of the town bolting as soon as they saw a clear route, and eventually, with one last stab between the eyes, they were the only ones left.

Glenn slumped down against a wall, Oscar not far behind. Seeing them made Daryl notice the fatigue himself. His legs were shaking slightly as he made his way to Merle, who wordlessly grasped his shoulder with his one good hand and nodded once. There were words that needed saying, but for the life of him Daryl couldn’t think of them right now. He nodded back. Then Merle’s eyes turned cold as they slid past his brother to the middle of the arena.

Daryl turned too, to see Clint, blood in his hair, on his hands, everywhere, throw away the baseball bat and drop, where he was, to lie on his back amidst the dozens of Walkers. Merle made to start towards him, but Daryl grabbed his collar before he was even aware of making the decision.

He picked his way over the corpses - soldiers, Walkers and the newly dead - to where Clint was panting up at the stars, exhausted. Daryl hunkered down next to him and waited. After a while, when the breath seemed to come easier, Clint spoke.

“We gave ‘em a show, huh kiddo?”

Daryl stared. Clint was smiling again, but it was the old smile, the one Daryl was used to. He refused to let it work, as it had so many times, by biting one of the corners of his mouth. He’d had enough betrayal for one night; his own face could just do what it was told.

“You... son of a bitch.”

Clint’s laugh turned quickly into a hacking cough and he rolled his head to spit of glob of blood away.

“Yeah,” he grinned, propping himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, she was.”

It took a second, a second where Daryl considered clenching the man’s neck in a fist so tight his face would be blue. But then he found himself laughing too, and once he’d started he couldn’t stop. The adrenaline had hit; belated, sure, but a good enough high to remind him that fuck it, he was still alive. They’d both made it.

He held out a hand and Clint grabbed it, but before he could hoist him up the other man had tugged and Daryl found himself wrapped in a hug as tight as the death grip he’d held back just a second ago.

“‘M’sorry,” Clint mumbled. “So sorry. You had to be angry.”

“Well, did I pass?”

Clint released him but kept a hand on each shoulder. “Daryl Dixon you’re an avenging angel when you’re pissed off. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. And trust me, I used to know a guy...” the words faded, as did the spark the laughing had brought back to his eyes. “Are we okay?”

“Are we–? Yeah,” Daryl said, perhaps a little too quickly. Clint’s eyebrows raised, and he seemed to be searching for proof of ‘okay’ in Daryl’s expression. Daryl let his lips twitch upwards. “Just... keep me in the loop next time. I coulda killed you.”

“Tch.” This time Clint let his friend yank him to his feet. “You wish, Dixon.”

His arm seemed to fall naturally over Daryl’s shoulders, though for all his apparent nonchalance Daryl noticed there was a little more weight there than strictly necessary. _Proud shit_. Daryl took the hint and wrapped his own arm around Clint’s waist and began to help him limp to where Rick and Merle were eyeing each other warily.

“Why the fuck did you do this to yourself, man?” Daryl muttered as Clint winced with what felt like a broken rib.

“Because I know you,” he replied shortly. “The only thing you get angry about, really angry, is family. Then there’s one of them with a knife to his neck, I wasn’t going to let you lose him. He’s all you’ve got.”

“I’ve got you,” Daryl almost snapped as he deposited him on a bench, waving Maggie over to take a look at him.

“Yeah,” Clint huffed as she fussed over a cut to his head Daryl was fairly certain had been inflicted by him. “And I made sure you kept both.” Daryl’s lips pursed again and he squinted at the sky. There wasn’t really any arguing with that. He brought his frown back to Clint, who winked.

“I’ll find a way for you to thank me later. But right now I’d be grateful if you stopped Rick undoing all my good work saving your brother’s ass.” All three glanced over to see Merle was having a hard time not skewering Rick where he stood, while the cop’s grip on his gun was turning his knuckles bone white.

“Jesus wept...”

“‘Nother day in paradise,” Clint called after him.

All things considered, Daryl had to admit as he kicked away the arm of one of the men he recognised as a Walker handler, it hadn't been his worst.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: written in the week before 3x09; was I Jossed or Kripked? It's kind of hard to say and I love it.


End file.
